To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(49)

The creases of his brow deepened. “Why should you be afraid?”

There were all number of reasons. None of which had anything to do with him and everything to do with another. She’d not have him believe she feared him. Never him. Eleanor patted him on the hand. “Not you,” she assured him. “You are perfectly safe to be around.”

“Thank you,” he said with a dryness that made her smile. Or was she already smiling?

“You were already smiling.”

“Oh,” she blurted. “Did I say that aloud?”

He widened his grin. “You did.”

A bold gentleman in pale blue satin knee breeches approached. One glower from Marcus sent the dandy scurrying away in the opposite direction. Her heart thumped wildly in her breast.

A black scowl marred Marcus’ cheeks. Had he been anyone else, she’d have backed up in fear. But this was Marcus and she knew implicitly he never could, nor ever would, harm her. “Has Brantley given you a difficult time?”

“Brantley?” She followed his gaze to the rapidly retreating lord. “I don’t even know Lord Brantley.” Some of the tautness about Marcus’ shoulders, lessened. Nor did Eleanor care to know Lord Brantley. Or anyone. It could only be Marcus. “Will you meet me in my aunt’s library?” Urgency threaded that request. Without awaiting his reply, Eleanor pulled her fingers free of his arm. “Do not be late.” And with that, she lost herself in the crush of guests.



A short while later, Marcus strode down the duchess’ corridors. The tread of his footsteps silent as Eleanor’s breathless entreaty danced around his mind. The lady spoke of friendship and requested a private meeting, rousing old memories and painful hurts. For an infinitesimal moment, he’d entertained the idea of leaving her in that damned library as she’d once left him. But no sooner had the thought fully taken shape, he’d killed it dead. With her furrowed brow and troubled eyes, she’d boldly questioned whether he’d honor that meeting. Her fears were likely a product of her own faithlessness years earlier. Marcus slowed his steps. The lit sconces cast ominous shadows about the wall and he stared at the dancing orange flame as he confronted his weakness for Eleanor.

In the midst of a ballroom, with strangers as their witness, she’d whispered her request for help and, for all that had come to pass between them, he could not deny her entreaty. Perhaps hers was an apology, an apology he now knew she needn’t make. Perhaps it was the goodbye she’d owed him, years too late. He’d never again trust her, but neither could he cut her from his life. I am a damned fool… With a silent curse, he strode the remaining distance, counting doors, and then coming to a stop. He glanced down the corridor and then quietly pressed the handle and slipped inside the room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the thick cloak of darkness that hung over the room and he blinked several times. His gaze locked on the flash of pale pink in the inky blackness.

Eleanor muttered to herself, wringing her skirts hopelessly. There was something so achingly sweet and innocent in that gesture; this new, unfamiliar habit she’d adopted in their time apart. He slowly closed the door, using the lady’s distraction as an opportunity to study her.

“Madness.”

Yes, they were of like opinion on that particular point.

What are you doing, Eleanor? Have you not learned your lesson? She paused and squinted at the ormolu clock atop the fireplace mantle. “Where are you?” she muttered under her breath.

“I am here. Or is there another who—”

A startled shriek rent the quiet and Eleanor spun so quickly she lost her footing.

His amusement died and he took the room in five long strides. “Eleanor.” He dropped to a knee beside her. “Are you hurt?”

She sat sprawled with her skirts rucked and wrinkled, looking like the shepherdess who’d misbehaved. “Marcus. You startled me.” She glowered at him. “And you are late.”

“Am I?” He took in the sight of her, his gaze lingering on her trim legs, the muscles of her calves spoke of a woman who didn’t rebuff physical exertions. Friendship be damned. He wanted her with an even greater intensity than he did eight years ago. Then, he’d been a boy and she an innocent young lady. “Are you hurt?” he repeated, his tone gruff. Now, she was a woman, and he was just as powerless to her enigmatic pull.

Eleanor followed his stare downward to where it rested on her exposed legs and a gasp escaped her. She tossed her skirts down. “I am not.”

He mourned the delicious glimmer of her naked legs, those shapely limbs he’d never before seen—until this very moment. With a sigh of regret, he shoved to a stand and, in one movement, guided Eleanor to her feet.

Eleanor clasped her hands in front of her and drew in an audible breath. “The reason I’ve asked you here—” Her words trailed off as he touched a finger to her lips.

How very methodical she’d become. “Shh,” he whispered. She put requests to him, coordinated meetings, reprimanded him for being tardy, and then wasted little time with whatever had brought them together.

“But—”

“A drink first, Eleanor,” he murmured and strode over to the eccentric duchess’ sideboard. Marcus eyed the older woman’s collection of crystal decanters and selected a bottle of brandy. He held it aloft.